


Tender Love & Care

by Gildedmuse



Series: Tied Up Tender [2]
Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Companion Piece, Fluff and Smut, Gift Fic, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 01:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18768778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedmuse/pseuds/Gildedmuse
Summary: After the first few months of being together, Roger begins to see cracks in their relationship. Mark just wants him to be happy.





	Tender Love & Care

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted to LJ in 2006]

**Tender Love & Care**

 

There is something about the spring that makes Roger want to start living again.

 

It's not that same steely determination just to get by that he feels during the long winter, the one that forces him to move or else freeze in place. It isn't that push of fall, that dreaded feeling that winter with all its memories is returning and the need to run away. Spring is something else. The season of happy mediums.

 

It isn't just Roger, either. The entire city starts to move again, not just drudge along through the ice while muttering to themselves and cursing at New York in however many languages they know. Okay, some people still do that, but there seems to at least be something more than this ominous, bleak presences hanging over Alphabet City. It's like life has actually started meaning something again, and Roger wants to be a part of that.

 

Which is why he is laying on the couch trying to balance a pen on his nose and staring idly up at the broken skylight over his head while the day slips away. All part of living again.

 

He sighs and the pen rolls down his face and across the notebook resting on his chest. The one filled with more doodles than words, and nothing close to lyrics or a melody. Jumbled up half thoughts that Roger doesn't bother expanding on, not seeing the point to try and force out music that isn't really there. Outside he can hear children talking, their high voices rising through the open window of the loft. Of course, now that he thinks about it that could be someone screaming for help and being ignored.

 

What is so great about spring, anyway?

 

Okay, there is the fact that in spring, it doesn't feel like his fingers are going to fall off and they don't have to burn what is left of their valuables to try and keep the loft up to the borderline of livable. In spring people feel a little more generous, probably due to the fact that they're no longer paying sky-high heating bills, and if Roger wanted to he could stand on the corner near some Broadway show and people would actually give him a dollar or so if he played his guitar out there long enough. There are a bunch of little things that makes spring better than winter, like his mom sending them chocolate for Easter and Mark insisting that his birthday is the first day of spring (it isn't, Roger says, because March is still cold as fuck) but over all, spring doesn't seem that different from winter. A little less cold, a little less desperate, but that is about it.

 

Of course, Roger could just be upset that spring means it's been four months and Mark still won't look at him.

 

Four months ago it had still been the dead of winter, but everything in Roger's life had been alive. For the first time, it seemed, since Mimi left him for some guy with that sad look in her eyes when she finally accepted that they wouldn't work. It's always in the eyes. The way April's would glow when he was high, the brokenness in Mimi's when she left, how Mark's glance around to look at anything but Roger these days. Four months ago none of this had mattered because Mark had said, "I don't care," and kissed Roger.

 

Only Roger can't be simply happy. Last time that happened, look what he'd done with it. Killed a girl, killed himself. Some part of Roger won't let him rest, won't let himself be happy even when Mark is trying so hard for him. So four months ago, one night, they're curled up in bed together and Roger should have left it at that. Should have rested his head on Mark's chest, listening to his slow heart beat and the honking of cars in this distance and simply been happy. He shouldn't have been thinking, wondering when this was going to break. He was thinking though; long, grueling thoughts that eventually lead him to ask, "When was the last time you got tested?"

 

Back in Christmas when Mark kissed him, he swore it didn't matter but the reminder struck some nerve. Mark had tenses, uncurling his arms from around Roger before going incredibly, frighteningly still. Maybe Roger shouldn't have said a word (he really shouldn't have been thinking to begin with), but since the very beginning he'd been letting those sort of thoughts hold him back from really giving un, really being with Mark. So why shouldn't they become real by saying them out loud? That morning Mark had woken up with a cold and well... Well... They were always safe, words that got chanted in Roger's head again and again and again. They were always safe, but Mark still woke up that morning coughing. So of course Roger had to think. Has to ask. He still didn't... doesn't think he deserves this anymore; being in love.

 

"You should get tested," Roger said once, way back in winter and every since then it's like something broke. That when those looks started, like Mark is trying to get away before it's too late. "You don't want to end up....."

 

That was four months ago, though, and this is spring. It's supposed to be about rebirth, but Mark still can't seem to meet Roger's eyes, always looking for some sort of escape. Roger hates the spring, with all its unfulfilled promises.

 

With a sigh he rolls over, the notebook and pen spilling to the floor in a mess of loose leafed papers and unfinished lyrics. He looks over towards the heavy door, waiting for Mark to appear. He's been gone since this morning, to work most likely as always, but part of Roger always suspects he won't be back. Never mind that all of his things are still here, Mark has his camera and if it came down to it, that is all he needs. Not his toothbrush or an extra change of socks of Roger. Just his camera.

 

Roger wouldn't blame him, either. Yeah, he'd be pissed as hell and probably curse and scream and do a million things he'd regret, but he couldn't blame him for leaving. Roger isn't the easiest guy to live with, and he knows better than anyone just how tempting it is to leave when things get tough. His dad did it to him, once, and Roger has adopted the habit. So it's not like he wouldn't understand, because he would, but the idea still leaves him scared. See, all Mark needs is his camera, but Roger needs people. Nameless faces in the crowd, one best friend to take care of him, one girl to fall in love with. Roger can't just disappear into his work. He needs to be angry or in love or just feel something so powerful that it keeps him going.

 

Without Mark, there will be nothing left and, yeah, that is sort of terrifying.

 

Roger watches the door like he expects Mark to come back any second. It used to be that he would be in and out of the loft five or six times a day. Go out to film, get upset about something and come back for a while to scribble away at a script before going back out to repeat the cycle. Then Roger got sick and ruined that pattern, and Mark stayed at home, unless Maureen needed him and he'd run off to her. Those were the times Roger would wander out to the street corner, buy some smack and shoot up and Mark would come home, see him, and swear to never leave again.

 

Then Maureen would call and... Well.

 

Now Roger has no idea what the script is between them. He can be left alone, and Mark isn't out filming like usual. He's using some film company's equipment to edit his documentary down, do a soundboard and narration and what not. He even stole one of Roger's old tapes to use the music. Without their old habits and patterns, Roger isn't sure what to expect.

 

Other than the fact that Mark just might not come home, and he hates expecting that but he can't make the thought go away. For all he knows they have that sort of relationship where it would be okay for Mark to just go to work one day and never come back. With the looks, Roger can't be sure.

 

Roger wishes he weren't afraid of Mark leaving. If only he hadn't wasted his time away on drugs, on girls and guys who hardly knew him with pretty smiles and lights in their eyes. Maybe he wouldn't be sick, maybe he wouldn't feel the need to repent, maybe he could just be happy.

 

Roger closes his eyes, not wanting to spend all day just staring at the door and waiting. With April, he expected that the drugs would always be worth more than him (and he was right, and it never hurt because the drugs were worth more than her sometimes, too) and with Mimi, he only had to be jealous of Benny and every other guy at the club. With Mark the worries are different, and maybe Roger is just grabbing at straws. Maybe he needs something to keep himself from being happy. Or maybe Mark really doesn't want to be in love with someone like him.

 

Roger has just closed his eyes when he hears the door opening. He snuggles into the cushions but he doesn't look up, feeling suddenly drowsy and unable to move, until Mark is leaning down, kissing him softly.

 

"Hey," Roger mutters, and somehow the whole loft has gone dark and the kids are no longer outside playing or yelling or whatever they'd been doing. Mark smiles down at him, his eyes looking dark and worn and Roger's knees are sore and stiff from being bent up for so long.

 

"Hey," Mark answers, wincing as the sound of crumpled paper follows his voice. He reaches down and pulls the notebook out from his under his foot, setting it down on the coffee table before sitting on the edge of the couch, leaning back onto Roger's stomach. "You tired?"

 

"No." He hadn't been tired, either. Just drifted off with his thoughts, and while it had been a nice break from thinking, he wishes he'd been up doing something instead. He isn't sure what, but spring makes him want to do something to keep Mark from leaving. "Just... Shit."

 

"Hmm?" Mark asks, making a displeased noise as Roger wiggles out from under him, climbing off the couch and heading into the bathroom. He doesn't know how long he'd been asleep, but Mark is home so it must be late and he's an idiot for not waking up sooner. Mark is going to be upset, too, if he knew that Roger missed a dosage for the day. Well, he could just take them now, and it would probably be just fine.

 

"Nothing," he calls back, going into the kitchen and grabbing a glass, not bothering to make sure it was clean as he ran water into it, pouring some of the AZT into his hand. "Just forgot," he explains as he tosses them back, swallowing the pills as quickly as possible. They taste bitter sliding into his throat, but he manages to keep them down without even wincing.

 

He use to wince when he took them, chocking and hacking and nearly throwing them up again, feeling even sicker after he would take his forced dosage. That could have to do with the withdrawal, though, and the need for drugs and not to live and not just the pulls. Anyway, he doesn't want to throw them up anymore.

 

He looks over to Mark and he's wearing that expression. The one that makes Roger worry. The one that makes it look like Mark is trying to find the nearest exit and dash for it. Maybe he is, too, but he just curls his hands into his jeans and doesn't run anywhere. "What's wrong?" Roger asks finally, sick of getting that look.

 

The second he asks, Mark's eyes go to the floor. He shrugs and answers with a muttered "nothing" as if Roger is going to believe that. Mark is good at hiding away, at not letting people in, but Roger knows better than to just give up without digging deeper. Especially when it is something that leaves Roger feeling uncertain about himself, about them and Mark and everything they are. He hates that feeling.

 

They sit there in this awkward silence, Roger watching Mark and trying to get him to admit that something is wrong, while Mark refuses to meet his eyes. This is how it's been for what feels like forever, but has really been closer to three months. It feels longer when this silence stretches out between them.

 

If Roger really thought about it, he could place the day that all these odd looks began. If Roger would stop glaring at the ceiling, stop panicking and looking for ways to break down the good in his life because it isn't what he deserves, then he might figure a few things out. He's known Mark for what seems like forever, but nothing is really forever and in this case is more like six years. He can place these looks, the way Mark closes himself off and starts working way too much. He could track this all back to one evening in winter, only a month after that Christmas with the handcuffs.

 

Roger can't really blame him for not wanting this, but it still hurts. Mark is his best friend, the one who picked Roger up even when he hit the lowest points again and again and again, dragging himself back down only to have Mark force him back up with the living. He can't just lose that, this person who kept saving him even when Roger was convinced he wasn't worth it, and if he could he'd take this all back just to make sure that Mark doesn't run off on him. It's a desperate, stupid thing to wish to do but Roger needs someone to hold onto, to be in love with, and Mark is that someone.

 

There is still a heavy silence between them as Mark walks across the loft, moving Roger's feet aside and settling down at the end of the couch. Roger sits up, the sound of the cushions moving beneath him loud in the quiet room as he scoots a little closer to Mark. They fall easily into each other, heads onto shoulders and sides brushing together as they huddle onto one side of the couch. It isn't romantic, it's just what they're used to. Amazing how touchy you get with someone, when the winters are enough to kill and body heats the only thing you have.

 

This isn't winter, though. It's the beginning of a warm spring, and still they curl up together on one cushion. Eventually Mark's arm works it's way around Roger's shoulder, fingers stroking softly through his bleached out hair. "It said negative," he says, voice slow and soft like his fingers against Roger's skin. "But they said it could take a while for a positive to appear..."

 

This isn't what they should be talking about. They should be laughing over something while high on some shit Collins gave them, or teasing each other about their respected art or comparing girlfriends. This is all stuff Roger and Mark used to do, before Roger spoiled it for himself and for them and for everyone he cared about. This relationship is supposed to bring them closer, not be just another way for Roger to ruin Mark's life.

 

The hand on Roger's shoulder tightens as if Mark can hear the thoughts racing in his head and is trying to get rid of them before they cause too much trouble. "I hate it when you do that self punishment thing," Mark tells him. "It's gotten so old."

 

Roger frowns, unable to say anything to that. They have had this argument before, Mark blaming all of Roger's unwillingness to be happy on guilt, Roger telling him he doesn't understand and running off to Santa Fe to find that everything he needs is back in New York.

 

Slowly, the arm slips off of his shoulder. The loss of contact more than anything makes Roger look up. Mark meets his confused expression with a hint of a smile, pretty forced but at least trying. "I kind of ache," he explains, rolling his shoulders back.

 

"Like your camera is really that heavy," Roger replies, rolling his eyes just a bit. Just some teasing between friends, a desperate attempt to prove he isn't being moody like Mark thinks. Okay, he is, but by now Mark should be use to Roger's emotional impulses, and Roger is use to trying to cover them up. "I use to lug around my guitar and amp. That's a lot harder."

 

Mark ruffles up his hair and Roger growls, combing his own fingers through it. It looks the same, no more messy or straight either time, and it's not like anyone else is going to see it. It's more about them being them than looking good. "Well, you haven't been working in a studio these last few days," Mark reminds him. "And I feel cramped."

 

"Poor baby," Roger says, reaching for Mark's shoulder and pulling him back, air escaping from his lungs a little too quickly as Mark's weight lands against his chest. There's a small scuffle on the couch with some pushing, pulling, and a line of curses that Mark's mom would definitely slap him for. There's also a crack of something under the cushions, but they ignore it until one of them (Mark) has come out on top (barely) and Roger gives up struggling.

 

"What was that?" Roger asks, slightly breathless and shifting beneath Mark, trying to get his legs unbent against the armrest. Mark isn't helping, just sitting there on Roger's chest and not moving as Roger tries to pry himself away.

 

The filmmaker shrugs, breathing heavily and loud and face flushed a bright red. He's smiling from the victory, though, a sort of cocky half grin. "I win."

 

"I let you win," Roger says. Childish, but Mark is like the size of one of his arms. It's not fair that he's got all this strength in such a little form.

 

Mark rolls his eyes again, blowing a lose strand of hair from his eyes. Roger laughs when it falls right back in place, reaching up to pull it behind Mark's ear. "Hey," he says, knocking Roger's hand away. "That hurts."

 

"Wimp," Roger says, pulling his hand back and collapsing into the couch again. He's still kind of breathless, and the longer Mark sits there on his lap, the worse it gets. It's stupid, after what is going on between them, but Roger is still a living, breathing guy with hormones and he's now seen Mark naked, and not in the walking-from-the-bathroom way. It's unfair. He's gone a year without sex before, it's not like he can't do it but, well, having Mark in his bed makes it hard to jerk off and curb the sex drive. Having Mark on his lap, wiggling around and panting and smiling like that, it's making it hard to keep his thoughts on track at all.

 

"Am not," Mark says, punching Roger in the shoulder hard enough to make him wince and jerk away, cuffing Mark outside the head in retribution. "I've just got a sensitive scalp." Before Roger can laugh at him, Mark bends forward, their hot breath mingling as he leans in. "Anyway, I won. So I get a prize."

 

Roger breaks into a wide smile. He can think of a whole lot to give Mark. Especially when he's nuzzling up against him, fingers brushing along Roger's chest. With an almost wicked smile, Mark starts to pull back and Roger follows. Yeah, he can think of a whole lot of prizes.

 

"You can massage my feet." That isn't one of them.

 

"What?" Roger asks, making a face as Mark scoots back, curling his feet out from under him and pulling off his shoes and socks. "No way. You're feet are gross."

 

Best friendship - no, love in general - only goes so far. Besides, right now Roger is not in the mood for a foot massage and maybe he should calm down and do what he's asked and behave himself, but Roger has never been good at keeping himself in check like that. Besides, well... Feet are sort of disgusting. They smell and look funny. Definitely not the part of Mark he wants to be rubbing.

 

"Roger," Mark says with a near stern expression as he throws his sock at Roger. Roger grunts, pulling it off his chest and tossing it away. He is not touching anything that smells like that. "Come on. I'm sore." He rolls his shoulders back, wincing to make his point and, okay, he does look sort of tense.

 

Mark is set on giving him this dead serious sort of look, and eventually Roger breaks with a sigh. "Alright," he says, just as Mark tosses his last sock aside. "But not your feet."

 

Mark shrugs, turning himself around for Roger. "Fair enough," he says, grabbing the hem of his shirt and wiggling out of the old thing. He tosses it behind him, landing over Roger's face. He growls a bit, scooting closer to Mark.

 

"And stop throwing your clothes at me," he says, hands landing on Mark's shoulders. Paler than he usually is around during the spring, when he spends all that time out filming. Usually he isn't trapped in some editing studio, and so he's a bright pink (even brighter in the summer) and no way could Roger touch him without him biting down on his lip or jumping away. So that's at least one good thing about being trapped inside. No sunburn.

 

They stay like this for a while, Roger working the kinks from Mark's shoulders as he leans back into Roger's hands. It's the first comfortable silence they'd had in a while. It's broken with a small moan, and Roger has no problems with that. "You're hands are softer than they use to be," Mark says, rolling his shoulders back as Roger's hands slide lower, working on his back.

 

"Hmm?" Roger looks down at Mark's skin and has the sudden urge to bite in, just enough because... Well, there is no good reason other than his sex drive. He shifts a bit, hands getting a little rougher.

 

Mark moans again, leaning closer. "When you played your guitar a lot," he explains, "you're hands were callused."

 

"They still are." To prove this, Roger lets one hand travel back up Mark's skin, thumb pad brushing against his lips. Mark's tongue follows, lapping at the skin and making Roger shiver, the heat coiled in his gut tightening and getting harder to ignore. He isn't sure what that showed, really, but it leaves him swallowing down past the feeling welling up in his throat.

 

"Not like they were," Mark answers. He scoots back, and it's hard for Roger to keep moving his hands around his back when they're nearly pressed together like they are. Not that he's going to complain about being able to feel the body heat rolling off Mark. "That feels better." Mark twists slightly, forcing Roger to give up trying to get any more work done on his back. He just smiles at him, turning until he's looking back at Roger. "And it shouldn't matter."

 

Roger gives Mark a look, unsure what he means. "You won," he points out, hands going back to Mark's shoulders despite the weird position he's twisted into.

 

"I mean..." Mark knocks Roger's hands away. "It shouldn't matter, because we're safe and smart." The smile disappears, his head falling onto Roger's shoulder as he stares off into space, working things out for himself. All Roger can do is hold him, sighing softly because it does matter, and maybe they shouldn't. Mark must be able to feel these thoughts, because he startles Roger out of them with a kiss to his cheek. "We take care of each other," he points out, nuzzling into Roger. "Why shouldn't we allowed to be happy?"

 

Roger isn't used to letting himself be happy. He use to care about nothing but just that, but that had been a long time ago with April and drugs. Now it takes Mimi or Mark dragging him, nearly kicking and screaming, to force Roger to see just how happy he can still be.

 

Mark moves closer until he's curled up on Roger's lap, his lips brushing against Roger's. "Smile," he whispers against his mouth, and Roger can't help but do as he's asked. He's scared, and no matter what mark says he's scared, too, but they make each other happy, and they do take care of each other so why shouldn't they have this?

 

His smile must be good enough, because he can feel Mark's lips turn up against his. He looks up and he can see the dark lines under Mark's eyes that make him look tired and old. Small imperfections, red marks bright against his pale skin. Beautiful blue eyes that are crinkled up when he smiles. Roger doesn't mind being in love with Mark, and that scares him.

 

Seconds tick away of sitting pressed together, smiling and studying each other. Roger reaches up, hand brushing across Mark's cheek, watching him shiver at the touch. "You're so pale," he teases, breaking the serious moment because something about it doesn't feel right between them.

 

Mark's smile quirks up a little. "At least I don't have girly soft hands," Mark teases, hot breath brushing across Roger's mouth as he speaks. Then his tongue, licking and playing with Roger's lips, slowing getting Roger's mouth to open. A harmless kiss, Roger wants to tell himself as he wraps his arms around Mark and lies back against the couch, Mark's hand curling into the fabric of his shirt and following him down to deepen the kiss that Roger knows will not end up harmless.

 

Like he knows it won't end well, it can't end well because they shouldn't be doing this but he doesn't fight Mark when he pulls out of the kiss, nipping at Roger's lips before kissing along his jaw, teeth scraping against his ear. Roger reacts to the heat that is coiling up in him, taunt and burning as Mark starts rubbing against him, groaning softly against his ear. Roger's hands stroke along his back, down into his jeans to tug the material aside. Mark's nails scrap along his chest, earning gasps and arching hips.

 

Clothes get pushes aside and contact is met with moans, whispers, and heavy kisses. Bodies are presses together, anything but harmless as Mark's hands slip lower, skin burning beneath his touch.

 

"I love you," someone whispers, the rhythm of the kiss breaking and becoming messy as condoms as slipped on, hands wandering along chests heaving with unsteady breaths as they try and kiss again, move together, touch everywhere. The answer is in more whispers and moans, bodies pressing together, rocking together, slow and dangerous. Breaths broken by kisses, never stopping in case the other forgets why they're here.

 

Roger lets it happen, though, because maybe he's sick of hating himself and everything he's done. Maybe he's tired of trying to find faults and fears, exploit them and pick them apart and find reasons to leave while he isn't helplessly attached. Maybe he's really ready to be happy.


End file.
